


All Intents and Purposes

by Anarhichas



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Painful Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarhichas/pseuds/Anarhichas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin knows that this will not end well. He knows that, as it is, they will not finish the night the same as they are now. He knows he should pull away, or say something sensible and dissipate the anxious mood that has sprung up around them, restless, so tense he feels he could reach out and touch it.</p><p>He doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Intents and Purposes

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: a very painful first time for Armin. Maybe some dubious conset, it doesn’t mather who’s it with, but I’d like it to be Eren.
> 
> Concrit welcome! Thanks for reading.

It is not, of course, entirely out of the blue. They have been dancing around each other for weeks, now: a touch to the arm that is exactly like an uncountable number of touches before it, but drawn up with eye contact that speaks of something else. Holding hands for no reason other than the contact of skin on skin, no longer children’s fingers linking but those of teenagers. An arm that loops around the waist, ever so gingerly, instead of around the shoulders.

Who should take the next step? Neither dare guess out loud, though they both plague themselves with the question.

It is night and Armin sits at the end of Eren’s bed. Eren thinks of Annie, set in crystal like a fly in amber, and the battle of day before. Armin thinks of Eren.

Eren is hurting, he knows with a miserable certainty, still swept up in Annie’s betrayal. When Eren hurts he hurts for himself – selfish, Armin thinks, but can’t begrudge him for it.

It’s dark and cold in the room, lamp not lit and sun setting. Armin buries his feet under the covers, then his ankles, until bit by bit he is wrapped up bodily. It is only a matter of time before he finds himself wrapped up in Eren’s arms as well, tucked with his back against Eren’s chest, their legs tangled, inescapable.

There is a silent, faceless communication between them. The air of the room prickles with meaning.

Armin knows that this will not end well. He knows that, as it is, they will not finish the night the same as they are now. He knows he should pull away, or say something sensible and dissipate the anxious mood that has sprung up around them, restless, so tense he feels he could reach out and touch it.

He doesn’t. Eren kisses the back of his neck. The first time might be platonic, an accidental brushing. The second time is more steady, the pressure of dry lips hard to misinterpret. The third is unmistakable.

Eren’s hips rock, pushing into Armin’s. Is he hard? Armin can’t tell. He lies still, hands unmoving where they remain tucked up under his chin. Eren’s palms find their way under his shirt, roaming the expanse of bruised, callused skin they find there.

Eren’s skin is perfect – a stretch of unmarked canvas over the swell and dip of muscle. His body heals all damage, from missing limbs to insect bites. Childhood scars and training calluses are long gone.

The fingers find a nipple, dragging over it painstakingly, and Armin’s chest rises sharply with a gasp he hadn’t meant to allow. Eren repeats the movement and Armin can’t tell whether he wants to pull from it or push back. His skin burns with hypersensitivity. 

Eren’s free hand, sweaty and hot, moves to the waistband of Armin’s trousers. They slip down, cradling the jut of his hip not pressed into the mattress, fingers spread wide. Armin trembles. He wants Eren to be happy, to remind him that there are ones Eren can still trust. He wants Eren to stay with him.

"Armin?" Eren’s hand has stopped moving, though it remains, a dominating weight.

"Yes," Armin says, weak and uncontrolled, the word spilling out on a breath before he can realise what he’s saying.

Eren kisses his neck again, wet and open mouthed, trailing down his shoulder. His hand sweeps back, over the curve of Armin’s arse to press into the crease there without hesitation.

The feeling is foreign, invasive, and Armin’s hips buck forward. Eren’s hand, still trapped in the confines of underwear, is forced awkwardly with it.

They take that cue to undress, pulling apart to deal with their own clothes. Eren finishes first, kicking his onto the floor, then helps Armin pull away his trousers and underwear to discard similarly to his own. Then he pushes Armin onto his hands and knees to cover with his solid body.

Eren’s movements are strong, unavoidable, only a little rushed. Armin’s heart shivers in his chest. He feels like there is something massive and he is stuck to the outside of it, a tiny soap sud against a much greater bubble, waiting to merge. He thinks, as he kneels frozen, legs nudged apart and Eren’s cock heavy and wet on his skin, he is not sure he wants to.

There is pressure, then intrusion, only slight. One of Eren’s fingers? Two, at least, because there is stretching, and Armin’s spine twists with the sensation. He closes his eyes and clutches the pillow in his hands, tight as he can. Then a new force, blunt, seemingly massive, pushing inwards, guided between the fingers. The strangeness turns sharply into pain.

"Wait," Armin says, wet and gasped. The burst of relief that Eren stops immediately is followed by shame that he’d even consider Eren would not. "Use - use spit."

He doesn’t have the breath to elaborate, but Eren seems to understand. There is a pause in which nothing happens but the pounding of Armin’s heart echoing along his ribcage and up his collarbones. Then Eren’s fingers return, moving around the head of his cock to work inside of Armin, wet and slick, dribbling. There is another pause. Eren does it again. He’s breathing heavily, Armin hears, eyes still closed.

The spit does not help, or if it does Armin quails to think of the action without it. His back arches as the burn of Eren pushing inside stretches him like a knife. He holds his breath, desperate not to let any pained noise escape, then when he lets go he pants, wet and irregular.

Isn’t sex meant to be pleasurable? Armin clenches his jaw as Eren jerks his hips, little motions that saw back and forth, bursts of agony against the background mire of pain. Perhaps it will get easier in a moment. If he can only relax. Relaxing is impossible.

Eren’s movements become rhythmical. He pauses to apply more saliva, and moans with the thrusts. His chest, where it presses against Armin’s back, is damp with hot sweat. It doesn’t get easier.

Armin bites the inside of his lip and bows his head like a workhorse pulling a load too heavy. The slap of flesh on flesh sounds ugly, embarrassing, as if it were the sounds of another couple and him as an unwilling vouyer. Armin’s arms ache; they shudder and collapse, dropping his face into the mattress. Eren pauses, losing rhythm, but does not stop.

Is this painful for Eren? Does he know how much he is hurting Armin?

No. He can’t, or he’d have stopped by now.

Armin grits his teeth and counts his torn breath, waiting for it to end. The grinding pain feels like it is tearing apart his muscles. His spine sags in trembling exhaustion. Why is this not enjoyable? He knows it should be. Is there something wrong with him?

He should tell Eren to stop. He can’t. Eren is already hurting, has already been let down today.

The world doesn’t seem correct, like it has slipped out of phase with reality.

Eren speaks what might be Armin’s name around a groan. He fumbles with Armin’s arms, finding his wrists, and it takes Armin a moment to realise that he’s trying to hold hands.

Armin grips Eren’s hands and clings to them. What is he doing wrong?

Above him Eren shifts, slowing, the muscles in his legs jumping and tense. His fingers clench around Armin’s. Then he stops. His breath is humid on Armin’s back, long ragged pants. He pulls out, one last flare of pain, and flops to his side, bringing Armin down with him. Their hands are still entwined, and when Eren moves them down Armin’s body, trying to disentangle them, Armin stops him short.

"No," he says, then quickly adds: "Too sensitive, now."

Sensitive is a kind way to put it. Armin’s lower half feels pulverised. His legs ache like he’s been running up mountains. With every small movement pain slices through his arse, the stab of a long needle into his guts. Is he bleeding? It feels like he should be, but Eren would have noticed and stopped if he were. Surely.

He is suddenly, unexpectedly tired. Armin brings their hands up and presses Eren’s fingers to his mouth, the perfect skin soft on his chapped lips. Not so long ago it had been a lattice of old, familiar scars. Eren presses his own lips to Armin’s neck, nosing away the sweat damp hair, and they stay like that despite the heat and stickiness. Avoiding the pain, Armin lies very still as they fall asleep. His body feels like a dead weight around him.


End file.
